In real life, someone will occasionally make a rude or cutting remark and, rather than immediately being able to put them in their place, I’ll be rendered speechless…left merely staring at them, stunned, my tongue unable to find the perfect retort.

It’s unclear whether, in real life, Jane Austen herself ever experienced that same feeling of muteness but, thanks to the wonders of fiction, we know that her finest characters did not. They were witty and clever and oh-so-fast with their conversational comebacks.
One of my favorites has always been the Lizzy/Lady Catherine de Bourgh scene in Pride and Prejudice (while they were walking in that “prettyish kind of little wilderness”). Her Ladyship volleys questions and demands at Lizzy, but the intelligent Bennet girl returns them with swift cunning and wit. And though Lady Catherine insults her by every possible method, presenting with arrogance and extreme lack of tact the familiar objection to Lizzy and Darcy’s potential courtship (namely the low connections of the Bennet family as compared to those of the Darcys), Lizzy keeps her head about her. She infuriates Darcy’s aunt by her composure and her unwillingness to be cornered. As a last-ditch effort, her Ladyship attempts to bully Lizzy into agreeing never to become engaged to Darcy, but our smart and spirited heroine pointedly refuses to make any promise of the kind.

Exasperated, Lady Catherine finally says, “You are then resolved to have him?”

To which Lizzy replies, “I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in that manner, which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without reference to you, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me.”

I will always love that line! Not only the fabulous comeback but, also, the show of personal strength and the sentiment behind the statement.

What’s a scene you loved from an Austen story (or from anywhere in the world of fiction) where you felt one character really gave a terrific retort? Did it leave you cheering? And are you good at snappy comebacks yourself or, like me, don’t think of the perfect response until hours (or days) later?

Have a great weekend, everyone!!

By Susan Kaye

Now is the time of year that young men’s hearts turn to thoughts of love, and women begin to dream of wearing open-toed shoes again. It is also the time of year when people begin to contemplate Forms 1099, 1040s, and W-2s. Yes, Folks, it’s Tax Time!

It the spirit of the season, I wondered how Jane Austen would react to a little I. R. S. interlude.
Bear with me, the plot is thin and I go for laughs over great writing form every time. In addition, if you are with the I. R. S., I am actually a Canadian living in Moose Jaw. I’ll worry about what to say when I find out about Canada’s Income Extraction Day.

The international financial crisis has forced countries to search for alternative revenue streams. The Untitled States is no exception. In a super-secret bunker in an undisclosed location in Virginia, agents of the U. S. Internal Revenue Service are busily at work perfecting the Capturing Revenue from Reanimated Authors And Artists of the Past Program. Their motto: We bring new meaning to the old saw, “Nothing is more certain than death and taxes.”

In a tiny, nondescript hole-in-the-wall office, a balding man is sitting behind an imposing grey metal desk while a woman wearing a long dress and bonnet sits before him. He looks annoyed and she looks strangely out of her element.

“Your name is Jane Austen is that correct? And you are single, and an author?” The agent, Thomas Mord, leafed through several sheets of paper and then looked at the woman.

“Yes. I mean, no. Yes, I am Miss Jane Austen and that is correct, I am not married. I am an author.” She took pride is saying such. It was the first time since finding herself in the strange building that she was quite certain of anything.

The agent murmured and pulled out a single sheet from his stack, marking it with a regulation blue pen. He placed them carefully before him, folded his hands and smiled. “Ms Austen, let me explain why you are here.”

“That will be excellent. Thank you.”

The agent was not used to such kindness during the preliminaries of an audit. Most auditees were nervous or blustering. This woman’s pleasant manner was a new ruse to disarm him he was sure. “You are here, Ms Austen, because the Internal Revenue Service—“

“I much admire the Revenue Service. Capturing smugglers is very exciting, I think, and it serves a very important function.”

The agent paused and cleared his throat. “I suppose you could look at what I do as thwarting smuggling. Thank you. Anyway, in the U. S. are looking for new sources of income—“

“We are much the same then. I too was looking for income when I began to sell my writings. It is very gratifying, is it not, to earn one’s way?”

Again, the agent cleared his throat. “Yes, it is. That being said, we are launching a pilot program wherein authors, such as yourself, who, though … “ His voice faded off. It was the most difficult part of the program, explaining to these long-deceased artists and authors that they had been, thanks to a certain website on an offshore server, reanimated so that the government could extract more taxes. “People such as yourself who have been in quiet retirement for several years, and have been found to be profiting more from the Internet—“

“Is that how I was brought here? By a net?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that. Those we feel are profiting by the World Wide Web—“

Miss Austen sat back in her seat and rubbed her arms. “Oh, sir, I do not like spiders.” She glanced about the bare room to assure herself it was not infested.

“No, of course, no one really does. Anyway, despite your … your being out of the public eye for so long, your work is gaining in popularity.” He shuffled more papers. “For example, Colin Firth of … Pride and Prejudice has gone on to have a very successful career. In fact, he has just won an Oscar—“

Miss Austen leant forward. “I can assure you, sir, there is no one by the name of Colin Firth in Pride and Prejudice. I write of good English people and he sounds to be Scottish with a name like ‘Firth.’ And what is this outrage of him winning an Oscar? Slavery is well on the way to being abolished in our country! Who is this Firth person to be wagering on a poor fellow named Oscar?” She clutched her reticule and took a deep breath.

Mord was feeling more comfortable. He was used to red faces, anger, and even shouting. The woman’s reaction made the session a little less tense, though what she said made little sense. “I don’t know about any of that, and I don’t know how he came to be called Oscar—“

“I tried very hard to stay away from the subject of slavery in Mansfield Park. I may have made a mistake there, but I did not wish to divert from—“

“So, is Mansfield Park your permanent address?” He quickly shuffled through papers. “We don’t have any address other than Winchester Cathedral.” His fingers were poised to take down an address.

“Uh, no, Mansfield Park is the principal seat of the Bertram family.”

“Principal Seat?” Chair makers, he supposed. “So, you live with these Bertrams?”

“I suppose it could be said that our characters are like family, and that an author lives with all of them.”

“I don’t need to know how many there are—that would be the Census Bureau’s department—I just need the address.”

“There is also Northanger Abbey.”

“So you live … in an abbey. Then you are a nun.” He began to search. “That will be another form for an exclusion for religious workers.”

“No, no. I am not a nun. Northanger Abbey belongs to the Tilney family. The youngest boy is all right, but the father and the older son are … well, never mind. You see, I sold Northanger—“

“I, mmm,” Mord made a sound that could only be described as a titter. He scratched the top of his left hand. He got an itch every year around tax time. So far, this year were pretty tame, but it seemed that Ms Austen was going to be the one who kept the tradition alive. The agent took several forms from his desk. “So, you have had some capital gains?”

 “I thought it was a capital story, but the publisher did not print it so I thought it best, under the circumstances to buy it back and wait for a more propitious time in the market.”

The itch intensified. “So, in all of that, you had a capital loss,” he pulled out more forms, “that being the case you will need to fill out these.” He slid the forms towards Miss Austen.

She slid them back. “You misunderstand me. I own no real estate. I cannot.”

“You say you can’t own property. Why would that be?” Again, he made ready to take notes.

“Well, no, and it is outrageously unfair in that regard. The laws are a scandal and should be overturned—“

The agent stood. “Are you, Ms Austen, suggesting … anarchy?”

“Certainly not, sir, but I do not think that could be any worse than—“

The interview went on in this manner for some time. Finally, Mr. Mord sent Miss Austen on her way with instructions to gather all her receipts pertaining to her writing. He had given her an appointment card for the 29th. While he was curious to know how much she spent on goose feather quills, he was already planning to take a sick day.

He went into the break room and found other agents milling around the coffee maker. Agent Joan Twinge followed him, yanked the carafe from the coffee maker and poured herself a tall one.

Thomas was hoping to ask Joan out once the program was in its evaluations stage so he said, “I think this Capturing Revenue from Reanimated Authors And Artists of the Past Program is a waste of time. These people are a little nuts.”

Ms Twinge had put six packets of sweetener and two packets of powdered creamer into her coffee. She was stirring furiously, and then flicked the plastic stirrer in his direction. “I know what you mean. I’ve got Thomas Paine in my office and I can tell you, he really is! He keeps yellin’ ‘give me liberty or give me death.’ I’m about to.” She tossed the stirrer and the coffee in the trash. “There’s not a lick of common sense about this guy, no matter what he says.” The door slammed behind her.

Mord wiped the coffee drips off his face. Fritchall came in and slumped at one of the table.

“How’s it going with you, Fritch?”

Fritch sighed and accepted a cup of coffee. “That Van Gogh guy really was really nuts. He wants to claim his ear as a business loss. He doesn’t have it in his possession, he’s got no medical receipts, and the only confirmation he’s got that anything actually happened is a note from the town barber sayin’ he saw it and put a wad of cotton on the guy’s head.” He set his coffee down and laid his head on his arms. “What is so hard about keeping receipts?”

Agent Mord dumped out his cold coffee and straightened his tie. “I hear you. My next guy is named Wilde. I’m thinkin’s he’s probably every bit that, and more.” As he went to his office, he thought, Oscar Wilde. He wondered if there was a way to work Jane Austen and Colin Firth into the conversation.

Take care—Susan Kaye